Lyn, Caldwell, and Pacey were all staying at the Washington Central Hilton. They ate dinner together that evening, and over coffee Pacey talked more about what they had learned in Packard’s office.
"You can trace the same basic struggle right down through history," he told them. "Two opposed ideologies-the feudalism of the aristocracies on one side, and the republicanism of the artisans, scientists, and city-builders on the other. You had it with the slave economies of the ancient world, the intellectual oppressions of the Church in Europe in the Middle Ages, the colonialism of the British Empire, and, later on, Eastern Communism and Western consumerism."
"Keep ’em working hard, give ’em a cause to believe in, and don’t teach ’em to think too hard, huh?" Caldwell commented.
"Exactly." Pacey nodded. "The last thing you want is an educated, affluent, and emancipated population. Power hinges on the restriction and control of wealth. Science and technology offer unlimited wealth. Therefore science and technology have to be controlled. Knowledge and reason are enemies; myth and unreason are the weapons you fight them with."
Lyn was still thinking about the conversation an hour later when the three of them were sitting around a small table in a quiet alcove that opened off one end of the lobby. They had opted for a last drink before calling it a night, but the bar had seemed too crowded and noisy. It was the same war that Vic, consciously or not, had been fighting all his life, she realized. The Sverenssens who had almost shut down Thurien stood side by side with the Inquisition that had forced Galileo to recant, the bishops who had opposed Darwin, the English nobility who would have ruled the Americas as a captive market for home industry, and the politicians on both sides of the Iron Curtain who had seized the atom to hold a world to ransom with bombs. She wanted to contribute something to his war, even if only a token gesture to show that she was on his side. But what? She had never felt so restless and so helpless at the same time.
Eventually Caldwell remembered an urgent call that he needed to make to Houston. He excused himself and stood up, saying he would be back in a few minutes, then disappeared into the arcade of souvenir and menswear shops that led to the elevators. Pacey lounged back in his seat, put his glass down on the table, and looked across at Lyn. "You’re being very quiet," he said. "Eat too much steak?"
She smiled. "Oh . . . just thinking. Don’t ask what about. We’ve talked too much shop today already."
Pacey stretched out an arm to pick up a cracker from the dish in the center of the table and popped it into his mouth. "Do you get up to D.C. much?" he asked.
"Quite a bit. I don’t stay here very often, though. I usually put up at the Hyatt or the Constitution."
"Most UNSA people do. I guess this is one of the two or three favorite places for political people. It’s almost like an after-hours diplomatic club at times."
"The Hyatt’s pretty much like that for UNSA."
"Uh huh." Pause. "You’re from the East Coast, aren’t you?"
"New York originally-upper East Side. I moved south after college to join UNSA. I thought I was going to be an astronaut, but I ended up flying a desk." She sighed. "Not complaining though. Working with Gregg has its moments."
"He seems quite a guy. I imagine he’d be an easy boss to get along with."
"He does what he says he’s going to do, and he doesn’t say he’s going to do what he can’t. Most of the people in Navcomms respect him a lot, even if they don’t always agree with him. But it’s mutual. You know, one of the things he always-"
A call from the paging system interrupted. "Calling Mr. Norman Pacey. Would Norman Pacey come to the front desk, please. There is an urgent message waiting. Urgent message for Norman Pacey at the front desk. Thank you."
Pacey rose from his chair. "I wonder what the hell that is. Excuse me."
"Sure."
"Want me to order you another drink?"
"I’ll do it. You go ahead."
Pacey made his way across the lobby, which was fairly busy with people coming and going and parties assembling for late dinner. One of the clerks at the desk raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he approached. "My name is Pacey. You paged me just now. There should be a message here somewhere."
"One moment, sir." The clerk turned to check the pigeonholes behind him, and after a few seconds turned back again holding a white envelope. "Mr. Norman Pacey, Room 3527?" Pacey showed the clerk his key. The clerk passed over the envelope.
"Thanks." Pacey moved a short distance away to open the envelope in a corner by the Eastern Airlines booth. Inside was a single sheet of paper on which was handwritten:
Important that I talk to you immediately. Am across lobby. Suggest we use your room for privacy.
Pacey frowned, then looked up and from side to side to scan the lobby. After a few seconds he picked out a tall, swarthy man in a dark suit watching him from the far side. The man was standing near a group of half a dozen noisily chattering men and women, but he appeared to be alone. He gave a slight nod. Pacey hesitated for a moment, then returned it. The man glanced casually at his watch, looked around, and sauntered toward the arcade that led through to the elevators. Pacey watched him disappear, and then walked back to where Lyn was sitting.
"Something just came up," he told her. "Look, I’m sorry about this, but I have to meet somebody right away. Give Gregg my apologies, would you?"
"Want me to tell him what it’s about?" Lyn asked.
"I don’t know myself yet. I’m not sure how long it’ll take."
"Okay. I’ll be fine just watching the world go by. See you later."
Pacey walked back across the lobby and entered the arcade just in time to miss a tall, lean, silver-haired and immaculately dressed figure turning away from the reception desk after collecting a room key. The man moved unhurriedly to the center of the lobby and stopped to survey the surroundings.
The swarthy man was waiting a short distance from the elevators when Pacey emerged a minute or so later on the thirty-fifth floor. As Pacey approached him, he turned silently and led the way to 3527, then stood aside while Pacey unlocked the door. Pacey allowed him to enter first, then followed and closed the door behind them as the other turned on the light. "Well?" he demanded.
"You may call me Ivan," the swarthy man said. He spoke in a heavy European accent. "I am from the Soviet Embassy here in Washington. I have a message that I have been instructed to deliver to you in person: Mikolai Sobroskin wishes to meet with you urgently concerning matters of some considerable importance which, I understand, you are aware of. He suggests that you meet in London. I have the details. You may convey your response back to him through me." He watched for a few seconds while Pacey stared back uncertainly, not knowing what to make of the message, then reached inside his jacket and drew out what looked like a folded sheet of stiffened paper. "I was told that if I gave you this, you would be satisfied that the message is genuine."
Pacey took the sheet and unfolded it. It was a blank sample of the pink, red-bordered document wallet used by the UN for confidential information. Pacey stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up and nodded. "I can’t give you an answer on my own authority right at this moment," he said. "I’ll have to get in touch with you again later tonight. Could we do that?"
"I had expected as much," Ivan said. "There is a coffee shop one block from here called the Half Moon. I will wait there."
"I may have to take a trip somewhere," Pacey warned. "It could take awhile."
Ivan nodded. "I will be waiting," he said, and with that, he left.
Pacey closed the door behind him and spent a few minutes walking thoughtfully back and forth across the room. Then he sat down in front of the datagrid terminal, activated it, and called Jerol Packard’s private home number.
Downstairs in the alcove to one side of the lobby, Lyn was thinking about Egyptian pyramids, medieval cathedrals, British dreadnoughts, and the late-twentieth-century arms race. Were they all parts of the same pattern too? she wondered. No matter how mu
ch more wealth per capita improving technology made possible, always there had been something to soak up the surplus and condemn ordinary people to a lifetime of labor. No matter how much productivity increased, people never seemed to work less, only differently. So if they didn’t reap the fruits, who did? She was beginning to see lots of things in ways she hadn’t before.
She didn’t really notice the man in the seat that Pacey had vacated a few minutes earlier until he started speaking. "May I sit with you? It is so relaxing to do nothing for a few minutes at the end of a hectic day and just watch the human race going about its business. I do hope you don’t mind. The world is so full of lonely people who insist on making islands of themselves and a tragedy of life. It always strikes me as such a shame, and so unnecessary."
Lyn’s glass nearly dropped from her hand as she found herself looking at a face that she had seen only hours before on one of the charts that Clifford Benson had hung on the wall in Packard’s office. It was Niels Sverenssen.
She downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, almost choking herself in the process, and managed, "Yes. . . it is, isn’t it."
"Are you staying here, if you don’t mind my asking?" Sverenssen inquired. She nodded. Sverenssen smiled. There was something about his aristocratic bearing and calculated aloofness that set him apart from the greater part of the male half of the race in a way that many women would find alluring, she admitted to herself. With his elegant crown of silver hair and well-tanned noble features, he was . . . well, not exactly handsome by Playgirl standards, but intriguing in some undeniable way. And the distant look in his eyes made them almost hypnotic. "On your own?" he asked.
She nodded again. "Sort of."
Sverenssen raised his eyebrows and motioned his head in the direction of her glass. "I see you are empty. I was on my way to have an unwinder myself in the bar. It seems that, temporarily at least, we are both islands in a world of nine billion people-a most unfortunate situation, and one which I am sure we could do something to correct. Would you consider it an impertinence if I invited you to join me?"
Pacey stepped into the elevator and found Caldwell there, evidently on his way back down to the lobby.
"It took longer than I thought," Caldwell said. "There’s a lot of hassle going on at Houston about budget allocations. I’m going to have to get back there pretty soon. I’ve been away too long as it is." He looked at Pacey curiously. "Where’s Lyn?"
"She’s downstairs. I got called away." Pacey stared at the inside of the doors for a second. "Sobroskin’s been in touch via the Soviet Embassy here. He wants me to meet him in London to talk about something."
Caldwell raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You’re going?"
"I’ll know later. I just called Packard, and I’m going to take a cab over to his place right now to tell him about it. I’ve arranged to meet somebody later tonight to let them know." He shook his head. "And I thought this would be a quiet night."
They came out of the elevator and walked through the arcade to where Pacey had left Lyn. The alcove was empty. They looked around, but she was nowhere in sight.
"Maybe she went to the little girls’ room," Caldwell suggested.
"Probably."
They stood for a while talking and waiting, but there was no sign of Lyn. Eventually Pacey said, "Maybe she wanted another drink, couldn’t get served out here, and went into the bar. She might still be in there."
"I’ll check it out," Caldwell said. He about-faced and stumped away across the lobby.
A minute later he returned, wearing the expression of somebody who had been hit from behind by a tramcar while minding his own business in the middle of the Hilton. "She’s in there," he announced in a dull voice, slumping down into one of the empty seats. "She’s got company. Go see for yourself, but stay back from the door. Then come back and tell me if it’s who I think it is."
A minute later Pacey thudded down into the chair opposite. He looked as if he had been hit by the same tram on its return trip. "It’s him," he said numbly. A long time seemed to pass. Then Pacey murmured, "He’s got a place up in Connecticut somewhere. He must have stopped off in D.C. for a few days on his way back from Bruno. We should have picked some other place."
"How’d she look?" Caldwell asked.
Pacey shrugged. "Fine. She seemed to be doing most of the talking, and looked quite at home. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said it was some guy swallowing a line and well on his way to ending up a few hundred poorer. She looks as if she can take care of herself okay."
"But what the hell does she think she’s trying to do?"
"You tell me. You’re her boss. I hardly know her."
"But Christ, we can’t just leave her there."
"What can we do? She walked in there, and she’s old enough to drink. Anyhow, I can’t go in there because he knows me, and there’s no point in making problems. That leaves you. What are you going to do-make like the boss who can’t see when he’s being a wet blanket, or what?" Caldwell scowled irritably at the table but seemed stuck for a reply. After a short silence Pacey stood up and spread his hands apologetically. "Look, Gregg, I know this sounds kind of bad, but I’m going to have to leave you to handle it in whatever way you want. Packard’s waiting for me right now, and it’s important. I have to go."
"Yeah, okay, okay." Caldwell waved a hand vaguely. "Call me when you get back and let me know what’s happening."
Pacey left, using a side entrance to avoid crossing the lobby in front of the bar. Caldwell sat brooding for a while, then shrugged, shook his head perplexedly, and went back up to his room to catch up on some reading while he waited for a call from Pacey.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Danchekker gazed for a long time at the two solid images being displayed side by side in a laboratory in Thurien. They were highly magnified reproductions of a pair of organic cells obtained from a species of bottom-dwelling worm from an ocean on one of the Ganymean worlds, and showed the internal structures color-enhanced for easy identification of the nuclei and other components. Eventually he shook his head and looked up. "I’m afraid I am obliged to concede defeat. They both appear identical to me. And you are saying that one of them does not belong to this species at all?" He sounded incredulous.
Shilohin smiled from a short distance behind him. "The one on the left is a single-cell microorganism that contains enzymes programmed to dismantle the DNA of its own nucleus and reassemble the pieces into a copy of the host organism’s DNA," she said. "When that process is complete, the whole structure is rapidly transformed into a duplicate of whatever type of cell the parasite happens to be residing in. From then on the parasite has literally become a part of the host, indistinguishable from the host’s own naturally produced cells and therefore immune to its antibodies and rejection mechanisms. It evolved on a planet subject to intense ultraviolet radiation from a fairly hot, blue star, probably from a cell-repair mechanism that stabilized the species against extreme mutation. As far as we know it’s a unique adaptation. I thought you’d be interested in seeing it."
"Extraordinary," Danchekker murmured. He walked across to the device of gleaming metal and glass from which the data to generate the image originated, and stooped to peer into the tiny chamber containing the tissue sample. "I would be most interested in conducting some experiments of my own on this organism when I get back. Er. . . . do you think the Thuriens might let me take a sample of it?"
Shulohin laughed. "I’m sure you’d be welcome to, Professor, but how do you propose carrying it back to Houston? You’re forgetting that you’re not really here."
"Tch! Stupid of me." Danchekker shook his head and stepped back to gaze at the apparatus around them, the function of most of which he still failed to comprehend. "So much to learn," he murmured half to himself. "So much to learn. . ." He thought for a while, and his expression changed to a frown. Eventually he turned to face Shilohin again. "There’s something about this whole Thurien civilization that has been puzzling me. I w
onder if you can help."
"I’ll try. What’s the problem?"
Danchekker sighed. "Well. . . . I don’t know. . . . after twenty-five million years, it should be even more advanced than it is, I would have thought. It is far ahead of Earth, to be sure, but I can’t see Earth requiring anywhere near that amount of time to reach a level comparable to Thurien’s today. It seems . . . strange."
"The same thought occurred to me," Shilohin said. "I talked to Eesyan about it."
"Did he offer a reason?"
"Yes." Shilohin paused for a long time while Danchekker looked at her curiously. Then she said, "The civilization of Thurien came to a halt for a very long time. Paradoxically it was as a result of its advanced sciences."
Danchekker blinked uncertainly through his spectacles. "How could that be?"
"You have studied Ganymean genetic-engineering techniques extensively," Shilohin replied. "After the migration to Thurien, they were taken even further."
"I’m not sure I see the connection."
"The Thuriens perfected a capability that they had been dreaming of for generations-the ability to program their own genes to offset the effects of bodily aging and wasting. . . indefinitely."
A moment or two went by before Danchekker grasped what she was saying. Then he gasped. "Do you mean immortality?"
"Exactly. For a long time it seemed that Utopia had been achieved. "
"Seemed?"
"Not all the consequences were foreseen. After a while all their progress, their innovation, and their creativity ceased. The Thuriens became too wise and knew too much. In particular they knew all the reasons why things were impossible and why nothing more could be achieved."
"You mean they ceased to dream." Danchekker shook his head sadly. "How unfortunate. Everything that we take for granted began with somebody dreaming of something that couldn’t be done."
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